No Hand to Hold, No Cheek to Kiss
by KatherineLynn
Summary: "Without a hand for you to hold, and without a cheek for me to kiss, who are we, really?" "Crippled, maimed, but free." Jaime thinks taking Brienne to Tarth to get married is a good idea, because all he wants is to keep her safe. She, on the other hand, is determined to remain in danger. Sansa rescues Margaery from the fate of King's Landing.


**Chapter One**

**Part One: Brienne**

Brienne awoke with a start, surging upward with some unknown energy brought by her nightmares. Her hand immediately went to her cheek, where the poultice the maester had given her was already hardening around the gouges in her cheek. As she looked around, she realized she was no longer in the cave that she had believed to be her final resting place. She was surrounded by silken draperies of the deepest crimson, and underneath her were golden pillows. It wasn't until she noticed her surroundings that she realized that her bed was moving, softly swaying from side to side. She was in a litter.

She weakly opened the drapes, and the sunlight that warmed her maimed skin was weak and pale. By the trees going by and the dirt below them, Brienne could not say for certain where she was. She called out for someone, though she didn't know for whom to ask. Her father was home in Tarth, Jaime in King's Landing, Hyle Hunt and Podrick dead. She called out again, and the litter lurched to a stop.

Theface that peered in to her was not one she recognized. "Where am I?" She asked first. "Who are you?"

"Josmyn Peckledon, if it please my lady," he said courteously. He skittered out of her sight for a second and returned with a skin. "Some wine, my lady? Or water?" His sandy thatch of hair kept falling into his eyes, eyes the darkest green they were almost brown.

"You're a Lannister," she said simply.

Peckledon's face turned pink. "Only distantly by marriage, my lady. I'm a squire for Ser Jaime." At mention of his name, Brienne propelled herself upward, foolishly searching for the man that had plagued her dreams and thoughts for her entire journey. Peckledon passed her the skin of water as she held her hand out, but refused to let her get up. When her arm swung out, he stopped it as gently and as clumsily as he could. "Begging your pardon, but my lord said not to let you up at any cost. You need your rest."

Brienne narrowed her eyes. "Well if your _lord _wants to enforce his wish, he best come and enforce it himself."

"Ser Jaime is off hunting."

_He's here? He's supposed to be at King's Landing. _Brienne fell back into her golden pillows. The amount of information she was missing made her head pound. Once she, Ser Hunt, and Podrick had been caught by the outlaws and the decaying body of Lady Stoneheart, Brienne had been sure she was going to die. Biter had eaten large chunks of her cheek and neck, and the bleeding was difficult to stop. The kind girl that had helped her apply potions to the wound had watched as the lady she swore to serve strung up Brienne and her companions to die for being lions. _All because I called Ser Jaime's name while I was dreaming. _

The memory made her nauseous. Of all her companions, she was the only one alive. The only reason she had been allowed to live was the one word she had yelled before she lost consciousness. _Jaime. _"Peckledon, why am I with Ser Jaime's men?"

Peckledon looked down to the ground, searching in the dirt for a lie to tell. Brienne swung her legs in the direction of the litter's makeshift stairs; he started, and decided on the truth. "Ser Jaime heard of your maiming by the Lady Stoneheart and managed to steal you from their grasp. He has ordered us to take you back to Tarth, to your father."

This time when Brienne stood, Peckledon stumbled backward, spilling wine from the forgotten skin on his chest. It ran off his light armor like faded blood, and Brienne had to push past the thought of her own squire, Podrick Payne, hanging from his neck in an elm tree, blood coursing down his small body. He hadn't begged for mercy, like the mighty Ser Hyle Hunt. He had borne his death valiantly, with his eyes on the Lady Stoneheart and his mouth closed.

Brienne found that she could not stand for long. The pain radiating from her maimed cheek was enough to put spots in her vision, enough that she did not see a hole in the King's Road and fell, sprawling out close to the clopping hooves of Jaime's men's horses. When she stood up again, her head swam so much she didn't even feel Peckledon's sticky hand guiding her back to the litter. She went willingly, crawling onto the litter, groping her way inside, on the brink of consciousness.

When she was back on the golden cushions, she let her dreams take her. Jaime was there, in his gilded armor, with a hand of gold and his regular hand, holding Oathkeeper. Lady Stoneheart should still have it, but the lady's head was hanging from the flank of his horse that he had named Honor. Brienne found herself weeping at the loss of Lady Catelyn turned Stoneheart. As she wept, Lady Stoneheart's eyes melted and ran down her cheeks like tears, and when she looked back up at Jaime, his golden hand was gone and he was covered in mud and blood, as though he had just crawled out of a grave.

"You broke your oath," the corpse of Jaime accused. "You killed Podrick, you killed Hunt. You killed us all."

"No!" Brienne sobbed. "I didn't break my oath!"

And Jaime was gone, replaced by Lady Sansa, all copper hair and beautiful, sad, blue eyes. She was standing beside the dwarf. As Brienne watched, she knelt before her husband and let him strangle her. Brienne screamed and fought, but she could not move. When Sansa fell, dead, the Imp turned his eyes to her, but his voice was Jaime's. "You doomed us all."

"Wake up, you bloody useless wench!" The weak sunlight had grown dark, and a grizzled face swam before Brienne's eyes. "Quit your yelling before we're all attacked by wolves!"

Brienne groaned at the pain reverberating in her head. "Two legged or four?" She asked.

Jaime's good hand adjusted the poultice on her cheek, his touch almost comforting. Different than the Jaime she remembered. "Four," he replied. "The Young Wolf's army is lost, defeated by the Boltons and the Freys, or yielded to Stannis Baratheon."

Brienne allowed herself one long moment of relief at the sight of her old companion before she punched him. He was only wearing mail and boiled leather, and doubled over when her large fist connected with his abdomen. He straightened a little bit, an offended look on his face.

"Seven hells, you ugly wench, what was that for?"

She grabbed him by the hair and wrenched his face up near hers. "You're taking me to Tarth?"

His face paled, Brienne took some satisfaction in that. "I'll have Peckledon's head for this."

"When were you going to tell me?" Brienne fumed. "When I realized that the road looked familiar, when my father's bannermen came to greet us at the gates, or when you handed me off to a husband I didn't know?" Jaime looked increasingly more shamed as Brienne raged on, but did not keep the anger from his eyes. "You knew what taking me back there would mean. You knew, and you still decided to take me back there, without my leave." She knew she was carrying on like a courtly lady throwing a fit, but she couldn't bring herself to stop.

Jaime shoved her back with his gold hand, the hands sharp and unyielding against her chest. "You almost died, wench. Do you understand that?"

"This is war. People die."

Jaime shook his head. "_Soldiers_ die."

"I am a soldier!"

"You're a _woman_!"

Brienne punched him again, this time he went flying into the dirt, landing flat on his back. The pain the physical exertion caused her was enough to momentarily make her blind. She blinked a few times and shook her head to clear it. "I will not be shelved by a man who cannot beat me in a fight." She had no sword, but she had fists, and she would swing them until she was unconscious and had to be carried back to the litter.

"Well I hate to break it to you, but I'm a cripple and you're maimed. Neither of us have any business fighting anyone, wench. Give up your need for a cock and settle for a life instead." Jaime gave her a pleading look that still looked angry. "You may not like having a husband, but you'll at least give Tarth an heir that you can be proud of, male or female. If you keep going on like this, your family line will die with you."

Brienne gaped at him like he had grown another head. "I swore an oath to return Sansa Stark to her mother."

"Her mother is dead, and her undead body just killed your friends, your squire, and almost killed you. I think your oath to her is done."

"It isn't."

Jaime growled, exasperated. "It is! She is dead, you stupid, stubborn cow!"

"I swore to Lady Stoneheart I would return Sansa to safety."

"Was this before or after she strung you up by your neck?" Jaime asked sarcastically. "All you're asking for is too many oaths to keep, and by the time you die, you won't have kept any."

"I swore her something else."

"Don't tell me. You swore to die in the attempt?"

Brienne's words were steel. "I swore to bring her your head."

Jaime's face went momentarily slack, and soon he had covered it with his usual arrogance. "It seems you have been making more oaths than you can keep then, wench. It's a good thing I'm taking you back to your father."

Brienne's anger flared, though her body was weary. "Hopefully someone will take you back to your father as well, so he can make you marry someone that isn't your own sister."

The ire that filled Jaime could be felt throughout the camp. Peckledon's horse shied away from him as he raised his sword with his left hand and felled a small tree. The hand around his sword was clenched so tight his knuckles were ghostly pale. When he spoke, he spoke through a closed jaw. "Peckledon, please escort the Beauty of Tarth to her litter, and see that she has a cup of milk of the poppy." Jaime fixed her with a glare that was as scathing as any insult he had said to her. "I don't want to hear her or see her for the rest of the journey to Tarth."

Peckledon looked sheepish but cantered off on his horse to find the maester's camp. Brienne turned to Jaime. "I don't need milk of the poppy."

"Well I don't give a mummer's fart what you need, wench. I'm taking you home, and as long as you're speaking ill of the dead and my sister, you can sleep until we get there. I'll have no more of your insolence."

"Insolence? How happy would you be if you woke up, your friends were dead, and you were being sent home to marry someone you didn't know?"

Jaime gave her a humorless grin. "While you're complaining that all of your friends are dead, keep in mind that not only did I save you from being hanged, I also ordered the maester to keep you alive, else he would forfeit his own life. And he almost failed."

Brienne furrowed her ugly brow. "You should not have threatened him –,"

"Oh, no? I should have just let you die instead? You almost got yourself killed trying to fulfill an oath you swore to me. I will not have any more deaths on my conscience. You're going home, wench, and I'll hear no more about it."

Peckledon was back, holding a small cup of milky white medicine, and Brienne went willingly to her litter. When Peckledon handed her the cup, she took a small sip and thanked him.

When he left, she dumped the rest of it onto the pillow.

**Part Two: Margaery**

After almost four days with no sleep, Margaery Tyrell found solace in daydreams. By now she had grown accustomed to the brown, roughspun shift she had been made to wear, the lack of shoes, of a bath, and friendly voices. She had begun to talk to herself, though not so much as a few other people in the cells down from her. She heard screams, kicks, moans, and crying at all hours of the night. To Margaery, they sounded like the Queen Regent.

But no, wishes don't come true in King's Landing.

The door to her cell groaned shrilly as it was opened, and a septa entered again, to ask Margaery if she was ready to admit to her crimes of treason and adultery. Margaery had stopped answering the questions long ago, and let her daydreams take her away once more. She daydreamed of the day Sansa Stark found out she would wed her older brother Willas, how happy and light she had seemed. Her blue eyes simply sparkled at the idea of seeing Highgarden, a place full of bright, colorful flowers, fruits, and people. Sansa had been so happy she had kissed Margaery on the cheek, right in front of Joffrey and the Queen.

She had paid for that later, Margaery learned. Joffrey had ordered Ser Meryn to hit Sansa for "besmirching the name of his betrothed," though many women had kissed Margaery's cheek before that. When Margaery had brushed Sansa's hair only a few days after that, while the red headed girl floated in the bath, she had seen the bruise across Sansa's pale stomach. Margaery had helped her out of the bath and traced the bruise with her hand.

"Who did this to you, my sweet flower?" She asked softly, anger filling her belly with squirming worms.

"No one, my lady," Sansa had replied meekly. "I spoke out of turn and had to be disciplined. It is nothing to concern yourself with."

Margaery had poked, prodded, and coaxed until Sansa had spilled the true story. She remembered the heat that flooded her face, and Sansa's sad eyes had widened.

"Please, please don't tell, my lady! I'll be in such trouble!"

Margaery had promised, though she had never forgotten.

A scream wrenched her daydream apart, and Margaery found her feet, her hands on the door of her cell. The septa had long gone. It could not be concealed. The scream belonged to the Queen Regent. Margaery knew that scream; she heard the same one when her husband died at their wedding feast. She smiled a grim smile. She had been imprisoned by the rumors set forth by Cersei Lannister, it seemed only fitting that Cersei joined her in her misery.

Before long, Margaery returned to her daydreams. This time she daydreamed about the day she found Sansa crying in the garden, after finding out that she would marry the dwarf, Tyrion Lannister. Tyrion had come to Margaery beforehand, telling her vaguely of his father's plan to marry him to the Stark girl, asking her to console his soon-to-be betrothed.

"Please, my lady," Tyrion pleaded. "She needs to know that I did not ask for this, but I will be gentle with her. I am not the worst Lannister she could wed, I think."

Margaery did not disagree. So when Sansa had come to her crying, her eyes red, Margaery had told her the same thing Tyrion did. "He's far from the worst Lannister." She gave Sansa a rose that day, yellow with red tipped petals, and found it a few days later in Sansa's chambers, resting in a cup of water.

The kinship she felt to the young Stark girl could overshadow even the bonds Margaery had with her cousins, whom she had known her whole life. Sansa understood how binding the politics of King's Landing could be. She had suffered more loss in thirteen years than many had in their lifetimes. She was alone, a frightened little puppy that had turned to a wolf beneath the storms of her enemies. If Sansa was still in King's Landing, Sansa would have gotten her out of here.

The door to her cell opened once more. "I do not wish to confess any crimes," Margaery answered irritably. "Now unless you're going to bring me a bath, I command you to leave." The person in the doorway did not move. "Did you not hear me? I'm still the Queen. Get out."

The voice that answered was accented, so much that Margaery could barely understand him. "It is time for your trial, my Queen," he said quietly. "But my lady has found you innocent, and I am to bring you to her."

"Who is your lady?"

"Her name is Alayne Stone, and she sends you this." The man held out his hand and handed her a yellow rose with red tipped petals.


End file.
